


Fallacious Clarity

by ThomE_Gemcity_06



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Aramis wears his heart on his sleeve, Athos eventually follows his lead, Canon-Typical Violence, Grieving!d'Artagnan, drunk!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThomE_Gemcity_06/pseuds/ThomE_Gemcity_06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"he'd have the killer's blood dripping from his rapier." d'Artagnan confronts his father's 'killer' under different circumstances, thus his meeting of the Inseparables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallacious Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> Season 1: Episode 1: Friends and Enemies. (Altered version).

**the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht**

 

d'Artagnan's hand held the cup in front of him with a fierce grip, the other around the neck of a wine bottle three-quarters empty. His elbows on the edge of the table in the darkened corner of the tavern, hunched over his drink almost like a protective mother over her pups.

He'd never drunken so much in his life, but then he'd never had much cause to do so before.

That afternoon, he'd buried his father next to his mother. And soon, he'd have the killer's blood dripping from his rapier.

He'd been at a crossroads a few days earlier, his father's listless body cradled in his arms as the rain hammered down on him and Alexandre, one of their attackers dead and sprawled in the stable where he'd left him.

Which was more deserving of his attention? The respect and dignity that his late father's body deserved? Or, to gain re/vengeance of his father's murder?

He had been at war with himself. He wanted nothing more than to ride to Paris with vengeance in his heart, track down that Musketeer Athos who had so blatantly and callously murdered his father in cold blood, and see justice done. But his father deserved much better than to be buried behind an unknown inn on the edge of Gascony in an unmarked grave next to one of the men who had been in party with his killer. Alexandre d'Artagnan deserved to be laid to rest beside his wife, back home at their farm — his peace would come as soon as his son put his killer in the gutter where he deserved.

He sloshed more wine into his cup as three men entered the inn. He paid them no attention, they were no concern or business of his, despite him knowing instantly that they were not Lupiac residents. They were all dripping (though he didn't quite register that it was raining outside; it had only been cloudy overcast when he'd come into the inn in the afternoon) and the biggest of the trio muttered a complaint to a man in a worn frock coat, while the third, a man clad all in black leather conversed with the barmaid about rooms, food, and wine.

The Gascon gulped from his wine. All he felt lately was anger and sorrow with bouts of numbness. Through the dim lighting and the rain outside that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, made bile rise in the back of his throat to be forcefully washed back down by the wine, the groups laughter kept blowing back onto him. It set him on edge, and made his heart ache at the same time.

"Athos," the gentleman in the frock coat, called Aramis stated, but whatever he said next was lost on d'Artagnan's ears as the young man's heart beat in his throat.

The name instantly registered through the dull rush in his ears. The name Athos would forever be engraved into his heart. He would never forget the last thing his father ever said to him. The name of the killer of his father was like a brand on his flesh, forever a reminder.

d'Artagnan shot to his feet. Or, more, stumbled, knocking his chair back. His head swam, but he pushed through it. He moved towards the table with the three men, forgetting about his own, bumping into it and knocking his near empty wine bottle off the table where it fell and smashed on the floor.

"Hey!" the innkeeper barked at him.

d'Artagnan ignored him.

"What's 'is problem?" Porthos wondered as the young man stormed at them suddenly. Aramis shrugged as he came to a halt in front of them.

"Which one of you is Athos?" he demanded, glaring at each in turn.

There was silence and Aramis and Porthos shot a questioning glance at Athos, and d'Artagnan, even as drunk as he was, tracked it like a bee. "You?"

Athos looked at him with indifference. "You found him."

"My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac." The Gascon informed him, his hand gripped the hilt of his rapier, releasing it an inch from it's scabbard.

The three men were instantly on their feet at the clear threat.

"No fighting in here, you bastards!" the innkeeper shouted at them angrily from behind the bar, noticing the obvious hostility. "You take that outside! I don't want no trouble in here!"

"Prepare to fight, one of us dies tonight!" he claimed.

"There's no need for th—" Athos replied. This was the last thing he needed, and for no reason whatsoever that he could discern. Aramis and Porthos seemed just as surprised. All they'd done was sit that this table, eat, drink and laugh.

"Here or outside, it does not matter to me."

"I said out!" the innkeeper yelled.

d'Artagnan charged a path through the inn and out front, into the rain. After a shared look with his two friends, Athos followed after the young man with a sigh.

The adrenaline rush, the heat in d'Artagnan's blood at his boiling anger, it acted like a catalyst, evaporating the alcohol from his blood stream. In the back of his mind, it registered the pouring rain and it made his heart clench, but he focused on the anger, on the man in front of him. The man who murdered his father was standing right here, right now, in front of him. It was in the morning that d'Artagnan was going to retrace the path to Paris that he took with Alexandre and finally track down the man who had ended his life so coldly. He knew that there wouldn't be much trouble in tracking the man down. Athos was not a common name, not just in Paris, but France as a whole, but coupled with the fact that he knew that man to be a Musketeer, it was only a matter of locating the Musketeer’s garrison

But the issue was solved by the man who had the nerve to step foot in Lupiac after murdering his father!

"Whoever said it was quiet and boring in the country, clearly has never been to Lupiac, Gascony." Aramis remarked aside to Porthos, who responded with a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat.

They stood aside under the little allowance of roof that protected them from the downpour as d'Artagnan and Athos faced off in the rain, their swords drawn.

"Might I ask why you intend to kill me with such passion?" Athos asked.

"You murdered my father."

The three men were equally as surprised by this proclamation.

"You are mistaken." Athos replied. "I am not the man you're looking for."

d'Artagnan didn't hear it though. "Murderer!" he shouted and charged, striking. "Do you deny that you killed Alexandre d'Artagnan two days ago in cold blood?"

Athos easily parried the young man's blow. "I usually remember when I kill. That name means nothing to me."

"Then you are a liar as well!"

Aramis watched as they fought for several minutes, each men's footing firm in the slippery mud, impressed despite himself at the young man's swordsmanship. "Remarkable. He's keeping up with Athos."

"Rubbish." Porthos scoffed at the statement. "'E just doesn't want to hurt th’ lunatic."

Aramis gave a short chuckle. Athos' fighting style was disciplined and controlled, toned with years of service and experience. d'Artagnan's, though major-ly skilled, was wild, emotional, unpredictable, a true talent that if honed properly, could one day exceeds Athos' skill, which it was currently matching, even in his drunken state.

"That's enough!" Athos managed to knock d'Artagnan's sword from his hand and pinned the young man back against the wall, blade at his throat. "That could have been your throat. Don't make me kill you over a mistake." He released the Gascon and started to walk away, "I didn't kill your father and I don't want to kill you."

d'Artagnan shoved from the wall, slipping a little in the mud as he made an angry sound in the back of his throat and reached behind him. To kill his father, and then insult him like this — !

Porthos saw his intent and moved fast, wielding his pistol like a club. "Enough o' this!"

Just as thunder boomed, and lightly flashed in his eyes, darkness reared and dragged d'Artagnan under.

They gathered round his unconscious body as Porthos tucked away his pistol.

"Doesn't he know that your name was cleared?" Aramis questioned.

"News obviously hasn't reached this far from Paris." Athos stated.

"Poor sod." Porthos agreed, staring at the young man sprawled unconscious in the mud. "What should we do with 'im?" he prodded d'Artagnan's boot.

"Nothing." Athos said stoically, looking at the lad without concern.

"We can't just leave him here." Aramis protested. "He's drunk, obviously marked with grief and now most likely has a concussion." He shot a side glance at Porthos’ on that last mark.

The man blinked in surprise. "It ain't my fault! 'E was crazed. It was th' best thing for 'im."

"Do what you want," Athos told them and headed back inside, "There's wine waiting for me."

Aramis sighed and shook his head. "Help me with him, Porthos."

"Yeah, yeah." Aramis took his shoulders and Porthos his feet, and together, with slight difficulty, manoeuvred him up the stairs and to their room for the night. "'Eavy little bugger." He grunted when they finally got him onto the bed.

"Looks more like a drowned rat." Aramis mused. "He's nothing but skin and bones."

"Well, that's m’ good deed for th' day." Porthos dusted his hands and headed for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Aramis' tone made him pause.

He shrugged his shoulders and shot back, "You're th' one that knows 'bout this kind o' thing. 'E's your responsibility." And he beat a quick retreat.

Aramis muttered a few choice words after his friend before he sighed and turned back to his new companion, setting his hat aside and pulling his fingers through his short curls. "Looks like you're stuck with just me for now, whether you like it or not."

First and foremost, he checked the young man's head. Luckily, all he felt was a bump and no spotting blood. Despite them being strangers, Aramis had no choice but to strip the young man of his soaking boots, breeches, and leather doublet, leaving him in his smathclothes before tucking him in under the blanket. It wouldn't so for him to catch a chill and become sick.

He sighed as he surveyed d'Artagnan. Just by sight he could see that the young man could have hardly been taking care of himself, and the lack of sleep was clear at the bruises around eyes and his drawn look from lack of food — of which alcohol clearly wasn't considered.

It wouldn't do to just sit around the room staring at the unconscious Gascon. Aramis knew that he would be out for several hours. Lack of sleep, couple with vast amounts of alcohol consumed and that knock to the head that Porthos presented him with — the lad wouldn't be present in the waking world any time soon.

He went back downstairs and joined Athos at their table. "He'll be out for a few good long hours," he told the other man, who gave him no reaction on the subject of their wayward friend. He sighed. "Where's Porthos?"

Athos nodded in the direction of a table across the room that had a few men seated at it, Porthos among them; apparently a card game had started up while he had been up stairs. No further comment was forthcoming.

"Miss!" Aramis waved the barmaid over.

She was an older woman, but by no means was she _old._ She gave Aramis a light smile.

"Ah, yes. More wine!" Athos told her before Aramis could say a word.

"Coming right up!" she turned to leave, but Aramis called her to a stop after giving Athos a look. "Yes?"

"Sorry, it'll only take a moment, Miss." Aramis smiled. "As you might know, were not from around here... but you wouldn't happen to know of the young man that we got into an argument with earlier, do you?"

Athos shot him baleful look at his questioning. He just wanted wine, to fall into bed, wake in the morning, and be off back to Paris. This stranger was of no concern of his. Sometimes, Aramis was too kind hearted and a romantic.

She paused for a moment and then her eyes lit up as remembered. "Ah, yes! d'Artagnan." She went on without his prompting. "His family owns a good piece of farm land. Everyone knew that they were headed for Paris to petition the King about the high taxes here." She paused. "Oh, but then they say that Alexandre was murdered by a Musketeer!" she whispered to Aramis conspiratorially, clearly not noticing the fact that these two men were of the King's Musketeers. "Died in his arms, he did."

"Betty! Back to work!" the innkeeper shouted across at her, interrupting them.

"Oh!" she scoffed in annoyance at the interruption. "I'll be right back with that wine."

"Still think it's not our concern?" Aramis pointed out as soon as the woman left.

Yes. His heart went you to the lad, but what could Athos do? He didn't kill d'Artagnan's father, the Red Guard who already did (Gaudet was apprehended and killed, thanks to Aramis and Porthos, saving him from the firing squad) — there was nothing else.

"We have to convince him of this truth, or he'll keep coming for your blood, Athos." Aramis reasoned, knowing exactly what the other man was thinking. "And... he deserves to know the truth."

Porthos returned with a sour expression on his face. "I can't believe I lost!" he grumbled.

Aramis gave a small smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "You can't win them all, my friend." Porthos muttered something under his breath that the Spaniard didn't quite catch and wasn't sure if he preferred to have, the big man wasn't the happiest when he lost a game of cards.

The barmaid finally returned with the wine, but before Athos could claim it, Porthos snatched it and filled his cup. "What are you two on about? I can feel discontent in th’ air between you two — like a couple o' women!"

"We were just talking about d'Artagnan."

Porthos groaned. "I feel like your replacin' me."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "You're irreplaceable, okay? Feel better now, hm?"

"Loads." He bit out sarcastically, but grinned anyways.

"We owe it to the lad."

"You always were a bleeding heart." Athos remarked into his cup, ignoring the own pain in his heart.

-xxxx

_The rain pounded against the stable roof. It covered the entrance of the two masquerading as Musketeers. He didn't notice until he heard sword sing from scabbard. Musket pistol cocked and popped. One dead, one running. Chase given. His father on the ground, in the rain, his blood dying the mud pink._

_A-Athos._

_Athos..._

Thunder crashed and split his skull wide open. d'Artagnan gasped in pain, his eyes bolting open. Confusion swept through him. This wasn't his room at the farm, though to say he'd slept more than a wink these last days since Alexandre's murder, was a laughable thing.

"You’re awake."

He sat upright at the voice that wasn't his own, ignoring that stab in his skull. He grimaced as he rubbed as his pounding head.

"A headache's to be expected." Aramis told him.

d'Artagnan blinked at the stranger in confusion for a moment, before he remembered exactly where he knew this man from. He looked around frantically and spotted the large man lounging on the second bed next to him.

"What have you done to me?!" he demanded, finally noticing his undressed state.

"Calm down." Came the stern order from the corner of the room.

d'Artagned leapt to his feet at the new voice seated in the corner. "Athos!" he exclaimed, and the anger that flared in his blood and heart made his skin hot. He reached for his hip, to his hilt before he remembered his missing clothes, which led him to the fact that his weapons belt would obviously be missing as well.

He backed up against the wall. He was trapped, cornered by the man who had killed his father and the men that assisted in the act. He clenched his fists and took a step forward. "Weapons or no, if you think that will make me hesitate, you’re wrong! I will kill you with my bare hands if I have to, so help me God!"

"Whoa there!" Aramis held his hands own up in placation. "We’re not here to hurt you. And no one's going to kill you."

d'Artagnan touched his head with his fingertips. "Says my splitting skull!" Porthos gave a light shift of unease, but the young man didn't seem to notice. "And my state of undress!"

"That was 'im." Porthos pointed to Aramis, it was an automatic response to draw any scrutiny from himself and he knew his friend could more than handle himself under that Gascon fire.

Aramis gave the man a glare (who shrugged innocently, though he was far from it) before he turned back to d'Artagnan's accusing look. "You were unconscious and soaked to the bone — apologies if preventing you catching a chill is such an insult."

d'Artagnan actually looked chastised for a second (and Aramis thought there was hope yet) before indignity and anger returned to his eyes. "Give me my sword, and we will continue our duel!"

"No." Athos said clearly and with finality, standing up. "You're going to listen, like you should have done earlier — and this whole mess would have been cleared up."

"I will not listen to the murderer of my father!"

Athos glared at Aramis. "This was your grand idea, you get him to listen."

Aramis sighed at the responsibility piled onto his shoulders. "d'Artagnan, please. Just listen to what we have to say, and then if you still do not believe us, you will have your duel." He beseeched.

"I want my weapons." He insisted petulantly.

"Do it!" Athos barked, tired of this back and forth without any progress. He could already feel the headache starting between his brows. He didn't have enough wine in him for all this drama.

"'Ere." Porthos got to his feet and handed the belt across the bed to the young man, who grabbed it and strapped it around his waist before they could change their minds, and by then, it was too late. If they wanted his weapons again, they’d have a real fight on their hands this time around.

"Speak... but I doubt I'll believe a word you say."

_At least he was willing to listen, if not **hear**_ , Athos thought dryly.

Aramis nodded. "Athos is highly regarded among the Musketeer, but deeply despised by the Red Guards. Guadet, the Captain of the Red Guard was the man that masqueraded as a Musketeer and committed highway robberies and murder, proclaiming his name as Athos to soil his reputation and have him thrown in front of the firing squad. His plan almost worked, but Porthos and I just managed to prove Athos' innocence."

Though anger boiled his blood, his hand clenching the hilt of his rapier, he tried to make himself listen. But what Aramis was saying just sounded more than a tad absurd. How could someone hate and despise a man enough to pretended to be said man and kill innocent people?

Aramis saw the doubt on d'Artagnan's face and he latched onto that because it was a sign that he was listening. "Gaudet was the one that killed your father, d'Artagnan."

"You don't know me. And you have no reason to believe me when I tell you. But I did not kill your father. I am sorry of his death, but though I am ashamed to say that it was because of myself that he is gone — I did not murder him personally." Athos stared right at him, unblinking, intensely, truth shinning in his blue gaze.

They had no physical proof to show him that Athos didn't kill his father, to prove that the man was innocent. But in a way, that lack of proof was all the evidence that they needed, d'Artagnan realized.

He had confronted them alone. Their three to his one. They could have slaughtered him in the rain with no witnesses but themselves and ditched his body out of sight. He didn't have any family to notice his absence. He had Alexandre and that had been it. Now — he was completely alone in the world.

If these were the animals that had murdered his father — it was true that he would not be alive now to judge their innocence or their guilt. They had brought his unconscious body to their room, made sure that he was dry and warm. They didn't steal what little coin he had on him, didn't take his most prized possession, his rapier that had belonged to his father once upon a time.

They asked him — begged him — to listen instead of threatening him. They told their story, their side of these events and were letting him judge its truth for himself — a man that had no reason to believe a word of it — but in fact he did.

These really were honourable men — truthful men... trust worthy.

d'Artagnan felt a lump form in his throat as the man's words struck him, and hit him as truth. He didn't know this man from Adam, _any_ of these three men, but somehow, he believed, he found truth in their words. Alexandre always told him that he let emotion rule his action, but he was honest and had a fair sense of justice. His father would want him to be sure of the identity of his killer, he would not want his son to murder an innocent man.

"This— " he cleared his throat, "This Guadet. Where is he now?"

Porthos' heart went out to the lad, and he could see that the others' did as well. "'E's dead now, lad. Sorry."

d'Artagnan didn't say a word, but gave a jerky breath. All energy, anger — anything — just seemed to drain from him as these words hit home. For some reason, watching it sickened Aramis deeply. It didn't suit the young man right. It was like watching the purpose leave a man's eyes and leave him empty.

He sunk down onto the edge of the bed, slumped in defeat.

"d'Artagnan!" Porthos grasped his shoulder. "Alright there?"

"What does it matter?" d'Artagnan whispered in a hollowed voice. "I've failed my father. I was too busy drinking myself to the bottom of a wine bottle to avenge his death!"

Athos felt compassion go through him. He felt for the young man. He understood that kind of grief and anger. That was why he had been so adamantly trying to avoid this scene. He knew what it was like to have someone he loved deeply torn from his life so suddenly and violently. He wouldn't wish the despair and grief on his worst enemy, and most certainly not the Gascon in front of him.

He saw the passion in d'Artagnan's eyes when they had fought; the anger, the grief, the fear, the hate, the guilt. He felt that every single day, every second he was awake. It was why he tried his damnedest almost nightly to drown it out (at least to a dull roar) with wine. He had yet to truly accomplish the task, but that didn't mean he was going to stop trying. He knew what it was to want revenge, to carry out the act, but in his own case, it just added to his grief and anger.

He had sought to do justice for his younger brother’s death by hanging his wife, turning himself monstrous in his own eyes… forever, for the rest of his life without absolution.

Seeing the young man just give up like this, it angered him!

He stepped forward, pushing Porthos aside, and grasped both of d'Artagnan's shoulders, giving him a shake. "Listen to me!" he didn't continue until he caught the lad's brown gaze. "You have not failed your father! I know that it feels as if you have, because it wasn't at your hand that Gaudet's life ended. You know what he did. We know what he did. And he knew what he did. He got the end that he deserved, whether by your hands or ours — justice was done."

"Which is more important?" d'Artagnan whispered. "His body? Or his memory?" The conflict was clear.

"You've done both. You've given him the burial that he deserved, and you honour his memory by not murdering an innocent man."

A shudder wracked d'Artagnan's body and Athos let him go, stepping back as the young man buried his face aside into his shoulder, trying to gain control over himself as Athos' words washed over him. The three watched with bated breath, wonder if the young man was finally going to come around.

Finally, when he raised his head again, his eyes were exceptionally shiny with unshed tears — there was no way he was going to cry in front of three strangers. "Thank you."

"You have exceptional sword skills — raw — but exceptional..." Athos didn't even know why he was saying this, he didn't want to deal with all the drama that he knew the Gascon was going to bring to the fold, but he couldn't seem to stop himself, "Have you ever considered becoming a King's Musketeer?"

It was too close to call on who was more shocked out of the group at his words. But he couldn’t bring himself to take them back as the fire lit in those brown eyes, a moment ago so lost and defeated.

Athos was just going to have to live with the consequence of that questionable offer, but Aramis and Porthos‘ answering grins were all the dreadful confirmation that he needed to know he‘d done right — even if he almost felt like a child being praised by his mother.

Suddenly, d’Artagnan almost seemed bashful as he said, "I might’ve done."

Porthos guffawed at the oblique omission and clapped the young man unexpectedly on the shoulder, nearly toppling him onto the floor. "No need t' be modest now!"

He looked at each of them overwhelmed. "I— I wouldn't squander the opportunity!" d’Artagnan told the trio firmly, his back straight and head held high. He hardly knew Athos, had been accusing him of killing his father minutes ago, but he somehow knew that he could take the offer to heart.

"See that you don't." Was all that Athos said, and that was _all_ that needed to be said.

[the end]

**the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht**

**Author's Note:**

> Well? What did you think about this altered encounter between d’Artagnan, Aramis, Athos and Porthos? They’ll always come together, won’t they, stranger or not. ;) Love to hear your thoughts (this is not a subtle suggestion to get you all to review, I swear. LOL). :D  
> Original Ending: Athos was just going to have to live with the consequence of that question/offer.


End file.
